Define Enough
by Anna McNarin
Summary: A Darkwing and Negaduck short.


When is enough, enough? Simple question. He just didn't have answer -a real one that is. The solution? Hit him. Can't ask questions with a broken jaw. Of course, it had been the only question the masked mallard had asked him; still, the guy talked too much anyway. He supposed it wouldn't be so bad if the other duck has something of actual interest to say instead of talking just to hear himself. But it was like that line "don't count your chickens before they're fried", or something like that. He grinned, fried chicken didn't sound too bad, after all he already had the chicken in front of him.

Turning his complete attention back to the fight, he caught the start of what promised to be another one of his opponents lame, redundant speeches of how good would always triumph over evil and blah, blah, blah, lame pun, blah. He snarled. Who needed this? He had the whole speech memorized the duck said it so often. Secretly he wondered if the dippy do-gooder even believed his own words. He grated his teeth. Some may have found it hard to believe, but he really hated wasting his time. Well, more like he hated those who wasted his time, which pretty much accounted for everybody.

He looked up intending to send one of his upper-cuts straight under the masked moron's bill only to halt when he realized the duck had stopped talking. In fact, he had stopped moving altogether.

He lowered his fist cautiously, leaving it cocked in such a way he could send a punch into the other's chest if need be. But the duck still didn't move, he just stared. The question of what he was staring at hadn't finished forming when it dawned on him they had locked eyes. It was into his eyes that the idiot was staring.

"See something you like, Dipwing?"

Darkwing blinked, but didn't look away. His baby-blue eyes still keeping a sharp lock on the person in front of him.

Negaduck was getting frustrated. Normally, Darkwing was near impossible to shut-up and now he wasn't speaking at all, even when asked -nicely!

"When was the last time you looked in the mirror?"

Out of everything Negaduck thought Darkwing would say, that wasn't close to any of it. He couldn't even tell if it was a mocking question or an inquisitive one.

"What, do I have some of your blood on my face?"

Darkwing broke eye contact, shaking his head. "No. It's just I forget . . . never mind."

An unusual, creepy sensation trickled down Negaduck's spine. What the heck was that duck talking about? What did a mirror have to do with anything, other than making a very effective weapon when broken?

"Ya know, I think you've had one too many knocks to the head. How's about you let me help you into early retirement?"

Darkwing deftly leapt to the side as Negaduck swung round to grab him, a pistol appearing out of nowhere in his right hand. Darkwing felt a press of metal against his side, and threw himself forward seconds before the gun went off, causing the villain to miss completely.

"Actually, Negs, I'm gonna go home. Our fights always end the same and I'm not in the mood for a major accident. Besides, it's dinner time. Go get yourself something to eat, it might calm you down a bit."

Negaduck felt the train in his head grind to a screeching halt and derail, Darkwing's words sticking to him like paint splatter on a wall. As a result, he just gawked at the purple and blue wearing clown who was half smiling at him, which in itself was cause for concern.

_What the bloody . . . huh?_ What was wrong with this duck, besides the obvious. He didn't budge when Darkwing jumped on his bike, smiled at him, said, "see you later, Neggers" and disappeared. By some twisted hand, Negaduck actually felt himself start to smile back in reply as the Ratcatcher roared to life, catching the action at the last minute. The gleam in Darkwing's eyes spoke of some unspoken amusement, and Negaduck knew he hadn't been quick enough in stopping himself. But the mallard didn't point it out, he simply turned his attention to his bike and left.

Lost withing his own thoughts, the destruction loving duck made his way back to his own "home", such as it was. He even stopped at a fast food restaurant, Hippo something-or-other, ordered a Bacon Burger Combo, paid -for once- and left. He hadn't even noticed that his presence alone had sent customers and staff alike into a petrified silence, something he normally loved to bask in.

Finally, he came to a stop outside a run-down apartment building that was at least as old as the city of St. Canard its self. What had once been a nice, plaster covered twelve story, low-income dwelling was now a orangish brick mess alight with graffiti that was from bored tenants rather than gangs. From an open first story window, he caught snippets of a soccer game and the heavy set man yelling at the television in a bizarre mix of English and made-up Italian.

Heading around the side of the building, he tossed the empty food wrapper over his shoulder, and started up the rusty fire escape, passing an arguing couple, three kids trying to start a fire, and a terrier with a cone on his head; all in different windows.

Crawling through an open third story window, which he slammed shut behind him, the mallard felt a decrepit sense of listlessness pass over him. He let his eyes wander over the one room flat, aimlessly taking in the detail, or lack there of since the only things in the place were a table and chair, and a mattress buried under a heap of miscellaneous items.

Throwing his red, wide brimmed fedora to the floor, he slowly made his way to the bathroom. Stripping off the rest of his suit, he jumped under the lukewarm spray, keeping his eyes shut tight. Even a stomach as hard as his found the overall state of the shower absolutely disgusting if he thought about it, or looked at it for too long. Unfortunately, the mere act of closing his eyes seemed to flip a switch in his brain that demanded he think about where he was and nothing else.

Feeling as clean as he could get, or cleaner than he was -not that it mattered- he shut off the water. Pulling a red bathrobe around him, he turned to face a small mirror that hung crooked on the wall above the sink and stared at the image before him. Staring back was a handsome face usually hidden behind his customary black mask. Normally, he never looked in mirrors. It wasn't that he didn't like the way he looked, or what he saw in his eyes, it was what his countenance reminded him of.

He touched his reflection gently, letting himself focus in on two dilated orbs suspended just above his bill. He used to love his eyes and the effects they had on people. His victims would scream in horror after looking into them, begging him to turn away. His Morgana had said she saw a burning passion in them that reminded her of the calm center of a wild fire. He had loved hearing that whispered in his ear. Only now he saw neither horror nor death in his eyes, instead he saw blue. A pair of beautiful, deep baby-blue eyes. His eyes. Drake Mallard's eyes. Darkwing Duck's eyes. In one short burst he smashed the mirror with his fist.

* * *

Blue eyes reflected upon the mirror

wasn't trying to stare

all the same I did

twisted and misshapen -or so I say

I'm a liar and he says as much

I am what I see -the kicker is so is he

a farce of self assurance

that is what it is greatly embellished

to stare and think "this is me"

playing out sides I never wanted to see

displayed on the sleeve of perceived truth

for all to see and revere -mostly fear

I am him and he is me

I am him and he is me


End file.
